


Something Changed

by tackytiger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Aurors, Bathing/Washing, Dual POV, Ficlet, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Polyjuice Potion, Potions Accident, Showers, Temporary Blindness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24999640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/pseuds/tackytiger
Summary: Harry almost dies at work (it's a regular thing- luckily Malfoy is usually there to stop him); Malfoy's in a pair of too-short shorts; they both need a shower after. That's it that's the story.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 468





	Something Changed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaesterChill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/gifts).



> For my darling maester, who loves trackie bottoms, shower scenes, and magical mishaps. Happy birthday, you marvellous creature you.
> 
> Huge thanks to M0stlyVoid and shealwaysreads, who were angels when I agonised over this, and then did such swift and efficient read-throughs when I finished at the last minute.

Harry was used to almost dying. 

This time really fucking hurt, though. It was like Harry’s ribs were being compressed, like his blood was beating through his body too close to the surface of his skin, like an unforgiving hand was closing around his throat.

As far as almost dying went, this was one of the worse ones.

 _Fucking potions_ , Harry thought, as he heaved himself onto his side and tried to sit up. He was sure that if he could just uncurl from his ball of agony he might be able to catch enough breath to feel like he might not be dying after all. 

It didn’t work. 

He could hear an odd noise above the drumbeat of his own blood pulsing, and it took him a moment to understand that it was coming from him—distressed, choked-off little gasps in the silence of the room—and though he hadn’t been scared before, that desperate wheezing sound frightened him now. His body was really trying very hard not to die, he realised. He wasn’t sure it was going to make a difference, though.

But then hands were turning him—gently, but firmly—and lying him flat, sliding cool along the curve of his jaw to his pulsepoint. He opened his eyes (and when had he closed them, he wondered) and Malfoy was above him. And that was a good thing, Harry thought, it was a very good thing indeed. Because if Malfoy was there, that meant Harry was going to be okay. Malfoy would fix things. Malfoy would make sure Harry didn’t die. Malfoy always made everything better.

And it was definitely Malfoy, even though he wasn’t wearing Malfoy’s face. In fact, he _looked_ exactly like Kieran Kilgannon, celebrity Seeker for the Irish team, ex-captain of the Bray Blackbirds, and the current record holder for highest transfer fee in the League after being signed to the Appleby Arrows not two months before. Also, blackmail victim, which explained why Malfoy was Polyjuiced as him, though Harry was sure it was the real Malfoy because he’d have known that particularly Malfoyish expression of irritated concern anywhere.

“Potter,” Malfoy was saying. “Potter, stay with me for a minute. I’m going to sort you out.”

Which sounded about right, Harry thought, and he tried for another sip of air, and waited for Malfoy to sort him out.

* * *

It was all very well to run an illegal potions lab, Draco thought as he cast a wild Purifying Spell at the noxious air, but there really wasn’t any excuse for this sort of sloppiness. Shelving Jewelweed next to Bulbadox Juice was asking for trouble, even if there _hadn’t_ been a full-on Auror raid involving hexes and counterhexes of varying degrees of legality flying around the room. 

It seemed like bad luck that it always had to be Potter who almost died at these things, though, and Draco shivered at the frantic judder of Potter’s ribcage under his palms. If Draco was any judge of the strength of the fumes from the combination of the spillages, Potter had about twenty seconds left before his lungs gave up entirely, and Draco was fucked if he was going to let that happen. And at least this lot kept their Distilled Maw right where it should be, tucked away in the refrigerator cabinet, within the reach of an easy _Accio_.

“There isn’t any easier way to do this, I’m afraid,” Draco told Potter, but he didn’t have time for anything else—no reassurance, no warning, no gentle touch— because Potter had gone desperately quiet and his lips were a sick purplish-blue. 

“ _Suspirium elautum_ ,” Draco said, and dropped his wand to press both hands against the heaving arches of Potter’s ribcage. For a horrible moment, nothing happened, and then the Maw did what it was supposed to do—thank all the fucking gods. As it vapourised around them and Potter sucked in a gulp of air, Draco felt the brutal punch of his own spellwork force itself into Potter— _into Potter_ —to get his lungs working again. He imagined air moving along the smooth coils of cartilage in the windpipe; the elastic tautness of connective tissue; oxygen passing through bronchi and bronchioles and alveoli; the small mundane magic of Potter’s body.

And thank _fuck_ for magic in all its forms, Draco thought, as he felt the answering heave of Potter’s ribs pressing up and into his palms, the whoosh of Potter’s breath leaving his body, taking Draco’s magic with it, and then the sweet quiet sound of his inhale as he summoned a breath, his body working just as it was supposed to, until Draco closed his eyes with the relief of it.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, voice grim with relief, a razor-edge of exhaustion cutting through the rasp of his returning breaths. “You’re back.”

He struggled to rise—probably the shock, Draco thought—so it was only being helpful to slide an arm under Potter and pull him up to sitting. But then he was very close, all of a sudden, and Draco’s arm was still around him, resting at the base of his spine so Draco could feel the shiver of muscle and the damp heat of his skin from the exertions of the wandfight.

“I never went away, Potter,” Draco managed, wondering all the while when he should take his arm away, and how long before it stopped being simple assistance and turned into an embrace.

“No, I mean _you’re_ back,” Potter said, before adding, “The Polyjuice has worn off. I’m glad.”

“Oh,” Draco replied nonsensically, but whatever else he was going to say was swallowed by Potter’s hair, because Potter was putting his arms around Draco and now it really _was_ an embrace, both of them on the floor with their arms around each other, Potter with his face pressed into the curve of Draco’s throat, and Draco with a faceful of Potter’s curls, still damp and foul-smelling from the spilled Jewelweed. 

“Thanks for not letting me die,” Potter said into Draco’s skin, and Draco didn’t say anything back because the only thing he wanted to say was _I’ll never let you die_ , only he thought it might not be the right time, and anyway his mouth was buried deep in Potter’s hair.

* * *

“Jewelweed?” Robards said, and Harry didn’t think he needed to sound quite so unimpressed. “I’d love to know how _you_ were doused in Jewelweed, Potter, when the rest of the team managed to avoid getting it all over them.”

Beside Harry, Malfoy shifted irritatedly in his chair, scrubbed a hand impatiently over his eyes. He looked absolutely dreadful. There was a livid circle of bruising around his nose and mouth from his Bubble-Mask Charm, which he must have forgotten to heal in all the uproar (and he wouldn’t be very happy once he realised, Harry knew). He had spreading blueish stains of exhaustion under his eyes, and there was a weeping line of spell damage skimming across one bicep—the perils of that ridiculous sleeveless vest that Kieran Kilgannon insisted on wearing.

“In Potter’s defence,” he said, in a tone just the right side of disdainful, “the Jewelweed itself didn’t do any major damage. It was the reaction with the Bulbadox Juice that caused the fumes. And that’s what happens when you let a team of Aurors raid an illegal potions lab during a simple blackmail sting. Potter and I had the whole thing under control until the rest of them barged in.”

“Thank you, Malfoy.” Robards managed to sound even more frosty as he looked Malfoy up and down. “Those shorts are quite the showstopper. Remind me again why you were Polyjuiced as Kilgannon, and not Potter, as I had instructed?” 

Malfoy smiled. It wasn’t a very nice smile—it certainly didn’t have the unexpected sweetness of his real smile—though it showed a lot of his nice teeth. He uncrossed his legs slowly, ostenatiously. Kilgannon wore his silky white shorts cut high, but Malfoy was half a foot taller again than him, and Harry could see shadowed lines of muscle taper along the inward curve of his thighs as he moved. 

“I’m better at accents,” Malfoy replied gravely, and he fiddled with the little medal on the silver chain that was an exact replica of the one Kilgannon wore around his neck, and kissed before every game.

Robards narrowed his eyes, and Harry nodded.

“Malfoy’s much better at accents, Sir,” he agreed, and Robards cast one cold look his way before starting to scribble ominously in his notebook.

“Well, you managed to wrap up the case at least,” Robards said reluctantly. “And I suppose congratulations on not dying are in order yet again, Potter. Now get out of my sight, both of you.”

Draco stood up, and left the room with an insolent little salute for Robards on the way. Outside, he slammed shoulder-first into the wall, let out a hiss of pain for his curse-wound, and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. 

“Well,” he said, “goodnight then, Potter. I’m off to get out of these hideous clothes.”

And then he was gone, before Harry could say another thank you—a _proper_ thank you, this time, not one where he was sagging in relief in Malfoy’s arms, and hugging him like he had any real right to touch him at all. Which he didn’t of course, and especially not after… well, after everything that had happened last week in the pub. Or more specifically, after the pub, in the alleyway next to the Floo point. And then again and again later, in Harry’s big bed in Grimmauld, Harry reaching for Malfoy like he couldn't help himself. Thinking— _believing_ —that Malfoy felt as helpless and wanting about the whole thing as he did. Harry swallowed hard, and watched Malfoy hesitating as he turned the corner at the end of the long Ministry corridor, hand trailing against the wall as he went.

Harry was already almost at the Atrium, thinking wistfully of his bath at Grimmauld, when he realised what had been nagging at the edge of his thoughts this whole time, and he swore fervently as he turned and raced back along the corridor towards the changing rooms. Fucking Malfoy.

Malfoy was fumbling in his locker when Harry swung in the door, and he didn't turn around, not even when Harry asked him gently, "What happened to your eyes?"

It was all there though, in the defeated line of his shoulders, in the tired curl of his spine under that loose vest.

He sighed.

"It's the Jewelweed," he said, and finally turned around. Now that Harry was looking properly he could see it through the fuzz of the weak, wandless glamour Malfoy must have put up before the meeting with Robards. Malfoy's eyes were cloudy, the lids a raw, spongy pink. "I'm allergic to it, always have been. It was in your hair, and when you… when we… " 

He flushed then, and Harry had a sudden and vivid memory of using his mouth to map that same spread of colour when he had Malfoy under him last week, and was fervently glad that Malfoy couldn't see him.

"I've been nothing but trouble today," Harry said. "So what exactly are you doing now? Do you need St Mungo's?"

Malfoy made a dismissive noise. "If I go to Mungo's they'll keep me for the night. You know I can't bear that place. I have some Effacing Elixir here somewhere…" He gestured at the locker behind him, whacked his elbow off the edge, manfully suppressed a wince. 

"Okay Malfoy, that's nice work," Harry said once he was very certain he wasn't going to laugh out loud. "Clearly this approach isn't working out so well for you. So why don't I just… I'm going to touch you now, okay?"

Malfoy nodded, jaw tight, and Harry took him loosely by his wrist and steered him towards the row of shower heads, then turned one on.

"There's absolutely no way for me to say this without it sounding like a chat-up line, but please take it in the spirit in which it's intended when I tell you to take off those filthy clothes."

When Harry got back with the Effacing Elixir, which was indeed tucked away in Malfoy's locker, Malfoy was under the shower spray, though he'd left his underwear on. Harry rolled his eyes as he peeled his own t-shirt off, and because he wasn't wearing any underwear he kept his trackie bottoms on as he stepped under the water. Wouldn't want to make Malfoy uncomfortable after all; and being naked together after a night of Firewhiskey in the low, inviting light of Grimmauld was entirely different from being naked together under the sickly fluorescent chill of a Ministry-issue Lumos Maxima.

“So what do I do with this stuff?” Harry asked, uncapping the bottle, and recoiling at the smell—something overripe, spoiled fruit, the peppery whiff of sulphur. “Fucking hell, this stinks.”

Harry could only see Malfoy’s profile, but he could tell from the tense flexing line of Malfoy’s jaw that he was deciding whether or not to be offended. Clearly, being almost entirely blinded made him agreeable, because he nodded and said, “It’s a neutralising potion, they always smell dreadful. The smell will go as soon as it mingles with the Jewelweed anyway. Here, let me…” He put a hand out, groped for the bottle, and Harry gently batted him away. That ring of bruising on Malfoy’s face looked painful, and Malfoy probably didn’t even know it was there.

“Hang on, Malfoy. You’ve got a bit of a… may I touch?” 

He took Malfoy’s chin in one hand, palmed his wand from its holster. This close, in this light, Malfoy was little more than a shifting, gleaming collection of shapes and colours; smoke and sunlight and fine lines of bone. Harry felt the rasp of stubble against his palm. He remembered the feel of that against his skin; when he had woken alone the next morning in the shocking chill of his rumpled empty bed, the tender crease of his thigh had been mottled with stubble burn. He hadn’t healed it, even after he realised that Malfoy really was gone from Grimmauld without a word, or a note, or a kiss goodbye. It wasn’t a big deal; he just wanted a reminder that it had really happened, even if it felt like it had been some sort of very fucking delicious dream.

* * *

Draco didn’t flinch at the press of Potter’s wand to his face; he’d have known it anywhere, that kiss of holly. He felt Potter sketch a gentle circle, following a tender line around his nose and mouth—that _fucking_ Bubble-Mask charm—and then wrinkled his nose experimentally to find the ache was gone. Potter kept his hands on him, moving him carefully sideways with a firm grip on his upper arm, gently probing at the edges of the spell-damage wound on his shoulder. 

There was a wash of heat, then the efficient zip and sizzle of Potter’s healing spellwork glancing off Draco’s bicep, and then Potter’s fingers touching him there again, although less exploratory this time.

“All better,” Potter said, and Draco felt suddenly, absurdly sad at the whole stupid situation. He blinked his stupid, itchy, non-working eyes and hoped the water from the shower would hide whatever horrifying expression was on his face.

Potter was quiet for a bit then, and if it weren’t for the _feel_ of him there, under the water, Draco might have thought that he had left. But then the noxious smell of the Effacing Elixir assaulted Draco’s nose again, and Potter moved closer, somehow warmer than the shower spray. 

“So how do I do this, then? Do I just sort of lob it all over your face?”

And Draco nodded, but because he was laughing a bit he got some lather in his mouth, and then his hands collided with Potter’s while they both tried to massage the suds into Draco’s eyes, and it was all a bit weird. But then they got a rhythm going—Potter pouring the Elixir, Draco lathering it—and Draco could feel the swelling and burning starting to ease which meant pretty soon he should be able to see again.

“Oops,” Potter said, as he caught a particularly large globule with his thumb where it oozed along the arch of Draco’s eyebrow. “Sorry, I’m probably not very good at this. I’ve never washed anyone else before.” His hand grazed the curve of Draco’s cheekbone, strayed into his hair for a long moment, fingers beating a restless tattoo at the base of Draco’s skull. Draco almost leaned into the cup of Potter’s palm, could feel the ache of the tension of wanting it, but then Potter pulled his hand away again, and he was glad he hadn’t.

“I’ve never had anyone wash me before,” Draco replied. “My nanny always used magic to bathe me, until I was old enough to clean myself.”

It sounded a bit sad when he said it out loud like that, and Potter seemed to agree, because he was quiet again for a while, and his hands fluttered restlessly from the crown of Draco’s head, to his shoulder, and then featherlight at the base of his spine for just a moment. Draco’s skin shivered in anticipation of each touch.

“You left, the other night,” Harry said then, and _of course_ he was going to make Draco talk about it. “I was hoping you’d stay. I asked you to, and you said you would.”

“It was complicated,” Draco said, though it wasn’t really. Actually, it was nothing more complicated than wanting Potter more than he should—and then having had him, wanting him again. Wanting _more_. And that was scary, and Draco had woken in the creeping shallows of dawn light, feeling fucked out and sated and sick with terror, and he had panicked and left. 

“It'll probably always be a bit complicated,” Potter agreed. “I wanted it anyway, though. That night.” He paused, pressed a thumb to the corner of Draco’s mouth, let his hand splay possessively over the curve of Draco’s cheek. “I want it _now_ too. If you do.”

Draco still couldn’t see much, but he could follow the quickening heat of Potter’s breath to where his mouth opened on a gasp at the touch of Draco’s fingers. From there it was easy to map a path using just his lips; from mouth to the plump curl of an earlobe, to the stretch of Potter’s throat, to the thin skin over his collarbone. Draco chased a rivulet of spray with his tongue until he reached the tightened peak of Potter’s nipple (and he could see it now, a little, the darker bronze of it against Potter’s skin, all the better to tug at it with his teeth).

“Clothes in the shower, Potter?” he asked when he found himself clutching two handfuls of sodden cotton where Potter’s arse should be.

“It’s complicated,” Potter answered, though the words were almost swallowed by a groan as Draco discovered the upside to an elasticated waist. “Right, that’s it, we’re leaving, Malfoy.”

The Ministry wards shivered and buckled around them as Potter spun into a turn of Apparation, and then they landed wet and shaking on the crisp expanse of bed in Potter’s bedroom, and everything was very, very simple for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thanks for reading.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought of this, and I welcome chats on Tumblr too - [I'm @tackytigerfic](https://tumblr.com/blog/tackytigerfic) on there!


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